Is It Just Me? Read Online Free

now I’m nervously doing my over-the-top laughing.) ‘I thought you were looking for a tube stop.’
    I hoped this might be endearing until I remembered that my over-the-top laughter to disguise feeling at sea at a social event makes me look like a cross between a horse, a goldfish and Princess Anne. (No offence, ma’am, your good sir-ladyship – well, she is bound to be reading.)
    Strangely, the young man scurried away, pronto.
    I then got myself terribly muddled in a conversation about Tinchy Stryder. I’d always assumed – and I have a horrible feeling this
will
just be me – that Tinchy Stryder was some sort of toddler’s walking boot. Come on, don’t laugh, be fair; it does sound a bit like it might be one. So when my friend’s new ‘I’ve achieved everything at twenty-five’ manager said, ‘I really like Tinchy Stryder,’ I said, ‘Oh, yes, lovely – how old are your children?’ Which, of course, would have come across as a totally random segue. Bemused by her scary, blank face, I blindly continued, ‘Are they good for kids’ feet?’ An equally confusing statement. (For my non-muso readers, Tinchy Stryder is a ‘rap artist’, innit.)
    ‘Sorry, I’m confused,’ she said. ‘I was talking about Tinchy Stryder.’
    ‘Yes, me too,’ I replied. ‘I think they must look so cute. Nothing sweeter than a grown-up shoe on a toddler.’ We both stared blankly at one another for a few seconds, before moving slowly off, aware that we’d somehow come a serious conversational cropper. Later, I realised my error and rushed over to her, shouting, ‘Rap artist. Not small walking boot.’ Cue the horse, goldfish, Princess Anne laugh.
    I tried to claw back some cool by casually sauntering off saying I was going to listen to Kanye West: ‘Yes, that’s right, I’ll be
listening
to Kanye West, not getting off at him on the Piccadilly Line.’ Which would, of course, have sounded desperately weird, as she wasn’t privy to my previous Kanye mishap. Every single thing I had said to that professional groovester made me look, at best, crazy. I left it there. The evening could not be salvaged.
    With all this embarrassment in mind, I think it only fair that I take a moment to give my younger self her first life lesson. It is time to warn her just how things are going to turn out on the music front. So please, bear with, MDRC.
    Dear Eighteen-Year-Old Miranda.
    Oh, hello. So you’ve deigned to address me. At last. From your big throne in the sky.
    I’m not in the sky. I’m on earth. Like you; just twenty years on in the future. It is a tad confusing, I admit, but it’s hardly
The
Lord of The Rings.
    I just assumed that twenty years into the future I’d be dead. From being so old and dweeby and everything.
    I told you, thirty-eight is VERY YOUNG. It still very much falls under the ‘late twenties’ bracket in my literal and metaphorical book. And I am very much alive and thriving, thanking you. Which is lucky for you, because I think it’s time we had a little chat. About music, specifically. From my current vantage-point – twenty years your senior (but still young and fresh), looking fondly back at you and eager to spout a few home truths, I can see that you’re in need of some help.
    No, I’m not. I know heaps about music. Actually, I’ve just –
    * holds up hand, regally * I’ll stop you there. I know what you’ve just done. You’re going through a brief and, I hate to have to tell you this, wholly unique period of being ‘musically cool’. The reason being you’ve just returned to boarding school after the holidays, carrying a cassette of music by a band (or group, or troupe, or ‘combo’ – to be honest, you’re not entirely sure what you should call them) named Talking Heads.
    Yeah, I know. Talking Heads. I love them. Well cool. They’re kind of punk rock . . .
    Yes, I know. They were of the New Wave musical style and combine elements of punk rock, avant-garde, pop, funk, world music